Wingless Angel
by LikeTheStars
Summary: "And she felt, like a wingless angel, being plunged into the darkness, into hell, where no light could reach, trapped there in the endless darkness" We all know Imogen Herondale as the Inqusitor.But have you ever thought her as a mother? one-shot.


**I've always hated the Inquisitor, Imogen Herondale, until her story was revealed, and the fact that she was Jace's grandmother. I wanted to write a fic about her (though I always thought my first TMI fic would definatly be JaceXCLary…), because as the second time I read CoA, I realized I couldn't see her as The sadistic Inquisitor who hated Jace and had to destroy everything… I saw her as Imogen Herondale, a devastated mother who had lost her son who she loved more than anything else in the world, and had every right to hate Valentine for the loss of her son. I may not know how it really feels to be a mother…so don't blame me if it doesn't sound realistic…but...hey, at least I'm trying here…**

**There are little FF about either Imogen or Stephen, in fact, there were none, because I had to write to to add the character of Imogen. H to the list…**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Mortal Instruments or the quote. Well. Piece. Whatever you call it…The Mortal Instruments belongs to Cassandra Clare and the quote…I found it on the internet…**

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****_Wingless Angel_****  
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_"A baby asked God, "They tell me you are sending me to earth tomorrow,  
but how am I going to live there being so small and helpless?"_

_God said, "Your angel will be waiting for you and will take care of  
you."_

_The child further inquired, "But tell me, here in heaven I don't have  
to do anything but sing and smile to be happy."_

_God said, "Your angel will sing for you and will also smile for you._

_And you will feel your angel's love and be very happy."_

_Again the child asked, "And how am I going to be able to understand  
when people talk to me if I don't know the language?"_

_God said, "Your angel will tell you the most beautiful and sweet words  
you will ever hear, and with much patience and care, your angel will  
teach you how to speak."_

_"And what am I going to do when I want to talk to you?"_

_God said, "Your angel will place your hands together and will teach you  
how to pray."_

_"Who will protect me?"_

_God said, "Your angel will defend you even if it means risking its  
life."_

_"But I will always be sad because I will not see you anymore."_

_God said, "Your angel will always talk to you about Me and will teach  
you the way to come back to Me, even though I will always be next to  
you."_

_At that moment there was much peace in Heaven, but voices from Earth  
could be heard and the child hurriedly asked, "God, if I am to leave  
now, please tell me my angel's name."_

_God said, You will simply call her, "Mom_""

* * *

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The moment she held him, her son, she felt like the happiest person in the world. He was so small—he was so small, so delicate—and he fitted perfectly in her arms. She was so overwhelmed by the feeling of love and relief. And she knew, no matter what, she would always be there for him, protect him, and love him.

And at that moment, she did feel like an angel.

* * *

*.*.*

"Mother, I'm divorcing Amatis."

"What? That's ridiculous. Why? Do you not love her any more? Has anything happened?"

"No." Stephen Herondale said as he sat down by his mother, the fire in the fireplace crackling in the background, throwing both of their shadows on the wall behind them. "No, it's not that." He ran a hand through his pale blonde hair as he looked into her mother's grey eyes. "Amatis's brother, Lucian, has caught the Lycanthrope disease. He is a werewolf now."

"And why does that matter to the relationship of you and Amatis?" His mother asked, her voice intent with puzzlement.

"Lucian is no longer Nephillim. He's a Downworlder." Said Stephen, his expression was unreadable.

"So you are divorcing Amatis?" She was still shock with disbelief. "A Downworlder." She echoed. She knew exactly where she'd heard that from before.

"Stephen…" She swallowed with some difficulty. "it can't be…you're in the Circle?"

Stephen said nothing but stared outside the floor length window.

"So it's true." She whispered.

She heard rumours, but she didn't believe it—didn't want to. Stephen would never join the Circle, she thought at that time. He was perfect at everything. He was handsome, charming, and unfailingly nice to everyone. She was proud of him. He was everything to her.

"Stephen!" Imogen raised her voice, the fire crackling louder, as if teasing her. "You can't be. What has gone through your mind?"

"Nothing." Stephen said briskly.

"You're in the Circle. Do you know what that means? The Circle goes against the law. Against the Clave. The Circle is planning the destruction of the Clave!" Imogen shouted in near hysteria. She was utterly loyal to the Clave, and had never imagined the day that her son, Stephen, would join the enemy of the Clave.

"I know perfectly well, mother." He answered in a steady, careful voice. "But I have made up my mind—"

The colours drained out of her face. "Made up your mind? What do you know, Stephen? You may think you are grown up now, but you are still a child. What can you gain from joining the Circle? Joining Valentine?" She said as she stood up. She spoke the words "Valentine" as if it was the most disgusting thing in the word, as if it poisons everything it touches. And she wanted desperately to shield Stephen away from him.

"There is nothing wrong with Valentine. I'm not a child any more; I can make my own decisions." Stephen shouted back. Light flickered in his eyes, reflecting the reflection of Imogen herself, looking terrified. Yet he said it in a way that it almost sounded like a plead, hoping his mother would understand. Even so, Imogen flinched.

"No." Imogen whispered. "No. " she shouted furiously, as if the thought burned her.

"Why are you so against it?" Stephen asked with controlled annoyance as he stood up.

"Why didn't you tell me before you decided?" Imogen was desperate."Stephen, please reconsider…" She begged, "I don't want to loose you…"

"I'm sorry, but I've already made up my mind." He said reluctantly as he stood up and went for the door.

"Stephen, please." Imogen pleaded as she put a hand on his right shoulder, where the star-shaped mark that every Herondale bore stood. "Do you have to?"

He didn't turn around. "Yes, I do." He said softly as he shrugged her hand off, and walked out of the room.

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Her world felt shattered in pieces. She could feel nothing but emptiness. Her heart felt as if it was wrenched out, and replaced with a heart made of ice, so cold, that she could feel her bones chilling. For the first time in Imogen Herondale's life, all she wanted to do was to scream.

But she knew that wouldn't help.

Wouldn't help the fact that Stephen was dead. Her son. Her whole family. Her everything was lost.

She wished so much that this was all a dream, a nightmare. That when she woke up, everything would be all right.

But she knew. Nothing. Nothing could bring Stephen back again. No spell, no incantation, no bargain of hell can ever save her child. And nothing would ever make her feel anymore.

He was gone.

And so were her husband, her daughter-in-law, and her unborn grandchild. All of them.

Dead.

Dead, because of Valentine.

Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palm. The hatred she felt for him burned, like fire, through the ice of her heart, leaving nothing but an empty shell inside her. She should've known. He's a murderer.

And he still had a son.

She had nothing left.

And she felt, like a wingless angel, being plunged into the darkness, into hell, where no light could reach, trapped there in the endless darkness, with only hatred as fuel, burning inside her, beneath her ice-covered heart.

* * *

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"Yes." Imogen said coldly with an expressionless face as she stood before the Clave. "I accept the role as The Inquisitor. I swear on the Angel I will remain loyal to the Clave." She pulled on the hood of her grey cloak emotionlessly.

"I will be Inquisitor Herondale from now on."

* * *

*.*.*

A figure emerged from the darkness in the doorway. She rose, and turned to the boy standing there.

She gazed at him from bottom to top coldly. He was wearing mud-splattered jeans, his shirt was filthy. He was covered in marks like all Shadowhunters, his face was covered in bruises from fighting.

Except one fact that made him _not_ like all Shadowhunters at all to Imogen Herondale.

Her gaze turned to his eyes, and locked there.

Instantly, an image of a Stephen appeared in her mind.

Then the image burned away as quickly as it came, and she felt the flame of anger burn, under the surface of ice she'd trap herself in for years since her son's death.

The boy may have the face of an angel, but she knew what was inside him. He was a murderer's son. _He's _nothing _alike with her son._

"You are the boy?" She asked coldly. She could feel the ice and coldness in her own voice, like icicles, and the cold stare in her eyes that would make anyone shiver inwardly.

Another voice answer the question for her.

"Yes, Inquisitor." Maryse said, "This is Jonathan Morgenstern."

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Thousands. Millions of demons. Through all the chaos on the ship—just arrived Shadowhunters and demons, the flicker of lights reflected from the Angel blades, the screams and horrible noises made by demons, shouts from Shadowhunters. Demons getting killed, but more and more advanced. A full scale battle— she still managed to find him, cloths torn and ragged from fighting. Just as he was about to follow Malik to fight a bunch of Raum demons, she pulled him aside.

"Come with me." She said briskly, tugging at his sleeves intently.

"I need to get to Luke. He's been hurt." He jerked his arm back, completely oblivious at _who_ was pulling him. "Let go of me."

"Oh, for the Angel's sake—" She said as she released her grip on him, and pushed back the hood of her cloak, revealing her face.

"_Now _will you do what you're told, Jonathan?" She asked, staring hard on him.

His eyes widened in disbelief as he saw her face, and she took notice at the back of her mind for the first time that he had golden eyes.

"I don't do what I'm told," He said after a moment, "but I might do what you want if you ask me nicely."

She ignored it, though she felt like slapping the boy, but this was hardly the time. "I need to talk to you." She said urgently.

He stared at her incredulously. "Now?"

"Now." she said, putting a hand on his arm.

"You're insane." He concluded, looking down at the ship. She knew what he was seeing—the Shadowhunters were being outnumbered. "There's no way—we're in the middle of a battle"

"_Now._" She cut him off in mid sentence, and tightened her grip on his arm. She pushed him back against a wall with him too surprised to do anything. It was obvious he was too distracted by the battle, and she couldn't talk with him like that. She could feel—uneasily— his desperation to fight amongst the others as well, to do the job Nephilim were made to do. She drew two seraph blades from the folds of her cloak and named them quietly. The screen made of blue white light sprang up as she flung the daggers to the deck. Everything outside was screened off.

"Are you locking me up again?" He asked in disbelief.

"This isn't a Malachi Configuration. You can get out of it if you want to."

She clasped her hands together tightly as she spoke, "Jonathan—"

"You mean Jace." He cut her off, his mind still on the battle. Though the screen made sure anything outside could not be seen, it didn't block the sound of the battle. The screams, the howls and the sound of tearing from demons. "What are you doing here, Inquisitor? Why did you come?"

Of course.

"You were right," She said, telling the hard truth. That Jonathan was never a spy for Valentine, and Valentine fooled her easily as anyone could fool a child. _You are nothing, Imogen Herondale._ The words rang through her head. "About Valentine. He wouldn't make the trade."

"He told you to let me die." He said steadily, as if a matter a fact, a fact he knew all along. That his father would let him die, that his son's life was just another accessory to the collection of things he own, and even a hunk of metal was more worthy than his _own son's life._ If there was _anything_ that could've saved—she broke off the thought.

"The moment he refused, of course, I called the Conclave together and brought them here." She said, "I—I owe you and your family an apology." The words were difficult to get out, though she couldn't feel guilt or regret—she stopped feeling anything since she was offered the job of the Inquisitor. Never had she apologies to anyone who once belonged to the Circle. She only felt rightful to punish anyone who was on Valentine's side. Because they deserved it. And Valentine—he deserved the worst.

"Noted." Jace only said. "Alec and Isabelle? Are they here? They won't be punished for helping me?"

"They're here, and no, they won't be punished." She said, her eyes searching him now. He may be Valentine's son, but if he meant every word he said, he _does_ care about the Lightwoods, while Valentine cared about no one, not even his _own son_…

"I can't understand Valentine." She said. "For a father to throw away the life of his child, his only son—"

"Yeah, it's a conundrum, all right." He said with impatience showing in his tone.

She still couldn't believe it. He could've showed at least _some _affection, instead of using him as a tool to delay time as he does to everyone else. Tools. She remembered how those pitch black eyes looked. _You are nothing…._

And then she was reminded that neither Valentine nor his wife had golden eyes, yet their son does.

"Unless…"

"Unless what? He asked in surprise now.

Like all Shadowhunters, Jace was covered in battle scars. Thin, white lines, marks received during countless battles with demons for years. Scars every Nephillim wore, proudly. But one in particular caught her eyes, almost making her breath stop. On his left shoulder where demon poison had probably got left a hole in his shirt, leaving his shoulder bare. And though it was made of thin white lines, its shape was clear: star-shaped.

She pointed at his shoulder, starring at it intently. "When did you get that?"

With a puzzled expression he turned his head to look at his shoulder. "The shirt? At Macy's Winter sale."

"The _scar. _This scar, here on your shoulder." She said, still staring, as if staring at it would explain everything.

"Oh, that. Something that happened when I was very young, my father said. An accident of some kind. Why?" He asked, baffled.

She wanted to believe it. But it was clear: the mark every one of the Herondales had. _Touched by Angel. _And there was no mistake. There couldn't be a battle scar exactly the shape as this one. She didn't believe in coincidences, anyway.

How? How could it be possible? How can _Valentine's_ son have the mark of the _Herondales_? She knew, after what happened seventeen years ago, there was no Herondale babies that could've lived until today. Seventeen years ago. How old was this boy?

Her heart chilled at the thought of her daughter-in-law, whose body couldn't even be buried inside the walls of the silent city, because she was a suicide. She was also carrying a baby. Hers and Stephen's. Her grandchild.

But he's Valentine's son.

"It can't be." She said out loud, breath hissing through her mouth "_You_ can't be—"

"I can't be what?" He said, utterly confused by the sudden change of her tone.

_My father said._ How reliable can anything that comes out of _Valentine's_ mouth be? Who knew what he could've done to poor Celine and her baby after her death? If he was telling the truth—why would Valentine want to hide his identity to his own son, a mere child, letting him believe he was Michael Wayland's son? Why fake his own death and lie to his son, if not because that _he was never his real father?_

"All those years," She said, unsure now, "when you were growing up—you _truly_ thought you were Michael Wayland's son—?"

"By the _Angel_," he spat, surprising her, "you dragged me off here in the middle of battle just to ask me the same goddamned questions again?" He shouted furiously, "You didn't believe me the first time and you still don't believe me. You'll never believe me, despite everything that's happened, even though _everything I told you was the truth_." He jabbed a finger toward whatever was happening on the other side of the wall of light. "I should be out there fighting. Why are you keeping me here? So after this is all over, if any of us are still even alive, you can go to the Clave and tell them I wouldn't fight on your side against my father? _Nice _try."

She went pale as she listened. She could feel the colours draining out of her face. "Jonathan, that's not what I—"

"_My name is Jace!_" He shouted in rage, his golden eyes blazing furiously. And she flinched. _Jace. _It was Celine; the young second wife of Stephen's who had golden eyes like Jace's. Not Valentine or Jocelyn. Before she could say anything else, he stalked passed her and kicked at one of the seraph blades in the deck, breaking the protection screen configuration as the wall of light vanished, revealing the chaos—screaming and smoke and the hurtling shadows of demons outside.

The past few days, all Imogen had noticed about Jace was how he was alike with Valentine: His arrogance, intolerance, disrespectfulness. She was never aware how much he looked like Stephen. How his hair was the exact shade of gold like Stephen's, and the sharp angular cheekbones. They shared the same fierceness when they were at rage, and the courage, the fearlessness.

He was Stephen's son.

And right now, Jace, standing a few steps away from her, was straining to see if he could find someone he knows. What lay beyond was complete chaos—demons roaming, screeching, and smoke everywhere. She knew there would be a demon coming for him any second. And he was weaponless.

Fear rose inside her. "Jace!" She hurried after him, "Jace, you don't have a weapon, at least take—"

She broke off as she saw a demon loomed up in the darkness in front of them. It hissed through its sharp, broken needle teeth as its yellow, rolling eyes with no particular focus on its wrinkled face concentrated on Jace, while Jace was just staring at it with no weapons in hand. She watched, terrified, as she realized that its long, barbed scorpion tail aimed at him.

And shot down at his face before he could do anything to defend himself.

She did what she had to do. What she would do if Stephen was standing there. What every mother would do to protect their child. Like a mother bird spreading its wings out to protect its baby. Just as the demon's tail was about to strike him.

She threw herself in front of him without thinking as she drew her weapon out; just in time as the scorpion's sting bury itself inside her chest.

Pain. Pain lashed out inside her. The most incredible pain. It felt as if the sting had eaten a burning hole in her chest, and the fire was spreading—through her legs and arms, all happening in one second. She heard herself scream—vaguely, but stayed on her feet. With her last effort and strength, she aimed the knife at the demons throat as the demon was ready for another strike, and flung the knife at its throat.

She crumpled to the deck right after—the poison was taking over her, and the pain was too much to take. She saw black tunnels opening up before her eyes, and the world was spinning—She knew she was going to die.

A hand laid on her shoulder, rolling her on her back.

"Inquisitor?" A voice said carefully. It was Jace.

She struggled to open her eyes. He was kneeling beside her; his face was pale, but written with question. Stars were dancing in the sky behind him, and the battle still continued. She turned her eyes and looked at him. _Stephen._ She thought for a second. But this was Jace. She hated him—because she thought he was Jonathan Morgenstern. But he's not. He's Jace. Jace Herondale. Her grandson.

_I'm so sorry, _she thought as she stared at him, there was little time left. _I should have realized. I should have cared about you. I should have loved you. But I didn't. _

Her head felt foggy; her life was slipping away. She felt darkness enfolding her. Death. _It was all because of him. Valentine. _She thought, but didn't have the energy to feel angry anymore. Her grandson was alive. She thought of Jace fighting—and he _did_ jump out of the Malachi Configuration. _I trust you; I have faith in you, as you are a true Herondale…_

With her very last effort, she beckoned her grandson toward her. And with her last exhale of breath—she whispered into his ears, with a faint smile she managed before she fell into darkness.

"_Your father would be proud of you."_

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**Honestly, that wasn't my best piece of work, but I did try my best…I guess. I do hope you liked it. Thank you for taking time to read it. Reviews would be greatly appreciated. :)  
**


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